A Time of Trial
by LisaT
Summary: Cynthia makes a decision that causes deep divisions between the young nurses, threatening the peace of Nonnatus House. Can harmony be restored before personal differences become professional? Ensemble piece, WIP. Chapter Four: Still reeling from the morning, Cynthia visits Shelagh... only for their evening to take unforeseen twist when Dr Turner bursts in...
1. Chapter 1

_Hi all! This is my first multi-part fic for CTM, posted in honour of its return this weekend (only two more days to go!). Like the show itself, the focus is on the relationships between the women, but I'm sure there'll be Shelagh/Patrick, Chummy/Peter and perhaps even a hint of Jenny/Alec as time goes on. If people enjoy this and want to see more, that is!_

_Oh, and the premise is partly based on the books, but developed within the frame of the series._

_ETA: Correct formatting_

* * *

**Nonnatus House, June 1958**

* * *

Cynthia teetered at the very edge of her seat like a nervous schoolgirl, her hands clenched tightly over its sharp sides. Her pulse thudded loudly in her ears, so loudly that she could scarcely hear Sister Julienne speak. Her voice cracked when she asked the nun to repeat herself.

Sister Julienne, on the other hand, was her usual composed self. She nodded understandingly and asked, for the second time, 'Are you sure?'

Cynthia's hands clenched tighter on her chair. 'Is anyone ever sure?' she countered.

The nun nodded, a small smile hovering at the corners of her mouth. 'That's true.' Her quiet eyes rested on Cynthia, boring into her, assessing her. 'It will mean huge changes,' she warned. 'You will need to move into a cell. Your relationship with the other girls will change, and as we are shorthanded we cannot even release you from your nursing duties during your postulancy.'

'I understand,' Cynthia said, surprised when her voice was steady instead of the quivering wreck she had expected it to be.

Sister Julienne leaned towards her, for once devoid of her usual twinkle. 'It will be harder than you can imagine. You will be stretched—pulled apart—transformed. Even if you do not proceed into the noviciate, you will be forever changed.'

'I know,' Cynthia said. 'I've spent many hours talking to Mrs Turner.' Her tone turned wistful. 'I wouldn't be here now if I wasn't sure. I'm not the kind to do things on a whim.' _Like Trixie_, hovered unspoken, and Sister Julienne's mouth quirked again as their eyes met.

'No. No, I know you aren't.' The nun sighed. 'I'll get in touch with the Mother House and let them know of your application. They will want a reference.'

Cynthia nodded. 'Mrs Turner said she would do it. She said that it would not be ... appropriate ... to ask you.'

'Not when I'm likely to be your Novice Mistress,' Sister Julienne agreed with the first real smile she'd given Cynthia since the start of their interview. 'Some orders would not accept Mrs Turner's either, but there's no doubt she's the best supporter you could have.' She rose, gesturing for Cynthia to remain in her seat, and turned to the oak cabinet behind her. A moment later and she was back with a sheaf of papers in one hand. 'Take these. Look through them and ensure you're happy with all the provisions.'

Cynthia nodded and accepted them, her eye scanning the typed lines rapidly. They were not as extensive as she'd expected; there was no mention of the dowry the former Sister Bernadette had mentioned, or pages and pages of rules. All she had was a brief summary of the Order's mission and its expectations of new entrants during the probationary period. Even those were few enough: a postulant must wear an abbreviated version of the habit, participate fully in the devotional life of the community, and complete several required courses of study, including the musical training she needed to sing the Office.

Her surprise must have shown, for Sister Julienne said, 'Remember the postulancy is a trial period, for you and for us. At any time during those six months you can tell me you've changed your mind and no harm will be done. After the postulancy, you'll be Clothed as a novice, but you don't take any vows until First Profession at the end of the noviciate. There's a further five years as a junior nun before Final Profession, when you receive the long black prayer veil of a fully professed sister.'

Cynthia realised her hands were trembling. It was becoming real. 'If—if the Mother House agrees, when do I Enter?'

The older woman smiled. 'That is entirely up to you.'

'Can my friends be there? The other nurses? And family?'

'Again, that's up to you. We do advise that Entrance be done quietly. Your access to friends and family will be only lightly restricted during your postulancy, but your Clothing can be as social as you wish; the noviciate is a lonely time.' Sister Julienne peered at her. 'Have you told them?'

Hot colour burnt its way up Cynthia's cheeks. 'Not yet. I've talked about it casually with Jen. And I've told my parents over and over how happy I am here—'

'You need to tell them,' Sister Julienne broke in firmly. 'Hints are not enough.' She gave a reminiscent smile. 'Even when you've been talking of it for years it still comes as a shock. My mother was horrified, and you know the story about Sister Monica Joan.'

'They cut her off,' Cynthia supplied. 'But Sister, that was years ago—'

Sister Julienne laughed. 'Believe me, no mother wants to hear her daughter wishes to be a nun. No, no, Nurse Miller. The time for hints is over. You're off this weekend, aren't you?'

'I was supposed to be, but Trixie—'

'Trixie can wait,' the nun interrupted with gentle inflexibility. 'Go home. Tell your parents what you're thinking of. Let them express their outrage and shock, if they want. Don't argue with about it, don't assume they're wrong. Think about what they say, pray about it, consider carefully. This is not a decision to be made lightly.'

Sister Julienne rose as she ended, coming around her large desk to stand before Cynthia. The younger woman rose, her eyes going to meet the nun's.

'You're sure?' Sister Julienne asked a third time, a fine line deepening between her brows.

Cynthia lifted her chin, for once having the confidence to meet her superior's gaze squarely. Only now did she realise how frequently she avoided such a direct look. 'I want to try,' she insisted. 'I want to try more than I've wanted anything in my life.'

The older woman's expression softened. 'Then may God bless and keep you, my daughter, as you prepare to travel this difficult path.'

That benediction buoyed Cynthia through the weekend and the task of telling her parents. It supported her through the long nights of reading and praying as she tested her sense of vocation in her own mind—but it could do nothing when the moment came to break the news to the girls.

* * *

**A week later**

* * *

'You want to do _what_?!' Trixie could not have sounded more aghast if Cynthia had announced her intention of parading naked down Oxford Street, garbed in nothing but her cherry-red nurse's hat. 'For heaven's sake, _why_?'

'Because it's what I need to do,' Cynthia responded quietly. 'I don't have a choice in the matter, Trixie. It's as if I woke up one morning and felt this–this compulsion.'

Shelagh Turner, sitting opposite Cynthia and nursing a giant cup of Nescafé, nodded knowingly. 'That's _exactly_ what it feels like.'

Trixie darted her a look that verged on unfriendly. 'Well, clearly it stopped being a compulsion for you,' she snapped, flourishing her cigarette and blowing out an indignant cloud of smoke. 'How did _that_ happen, pray tell?'

Shelagh went bright red but she managed to speak with dignity. 'It didn't stop.' Her even tone reminded the girls of the days when she, as Sister Bernadette, had taught them. 'Compulsion, call, it's the same thing. My call to serve God simply _changed_, that's all.'

'H'mmm. I'm absolutely certain that's not what you tell Dr Turner in bed at night.'

'Trixie!' Jenny protested as Shelagh's colour deepened and Cynthia's eyes grew very bright. 'If you can't be nice, shut up. You're being a beast, it's Cynthia's life and it's nothing to do with you how she chooses to live it.'

Trixie's gaze swivelled to Jenny. 'You seem remarkably unshocked by this, Jenny Lee, considering all the things you used to say about the nuns—'

Now it was Jenny's turn to flush. 'That was before I knew them. I was ignorant, you can't cast that up to me now.'

The other girl's eyes narrowed. 'You _knew_, didn't you?' It was an accusation.

Unintimidated, Jenny returned glare for glare. 'I didn't know for sure. I suspected Cynthia was considering it—'

'As did I,' Shelagh interjected, while Chummy's awkward shuffling spoke for itself.

Trixie's delicate features hardened. 'So all of you knew, except me.'

'Don't be like that, Trixie,' Cynthia pleaded, leaning forward. 'I wasn't trying to shut you out, honestly, I—I just didn't know how you'd react.'

'Because I'm so temperamental, I suppose,' Trixie huffed, blowing a smoke ring. 'I'm sorry to see you had so little faith in me. What about the nuns, do they know? And I'm positive Chummy and Shelagh have been dutiful little wives and told their respective husbands—'

Chummy tried and failed to look invisible, but Shelagh did not flinch.

'I haven't said a word to Patrick,' she said in a voice as smooth and sweet as ice-cream, and even Trixie had the grace to look abashed.

'Sister Julienne knows,' Cynthia put in, looking wretchedly guilty. 'I had to tell her what I was thinking.'

'Huh.' Trixie shifted. 'I've half a mind to tell her what I think of her for encouraging you in this—this _idiocy_!'

There was a general outcry. Shelagh and Cynthia defended Sister Julienne, Chummy kept saying, 'Oh I say, girls, don't let's argue' in stentorian tones, while Jenny's voice rose above the rest.

'That's _enough_, Beatrix Franklin! You've gone way beyond beastliness now. If you don't apologise this very minute, I swear we'll have nothing more to do with you until you do!'

To her surprise, Trixie's only response was a cat-like smile.

'Have it your own way, darling. I'll make sure I'm there while you're explaining to Sister Evangelina why you've been struck dumb the next time we're attending a delivery together. I'm certain you'll be able to hear her all the way to Charing Cross!' With that, she rose with sinuous grace and left, having—as usual—had the last word.

The others stared at each other in blank silence.

'That went well,' Chummy said at last, sounding as glum as she looked.

Jenny gave a spluttered laugh. 'Trust you to state the obvious, Chum.' She groaned and planted her elbows on the table, running her fingers through her curls. 'Now what do we do? I hate to admit it, but she's right, we can't refuse to talk to her during work hours or the nuns will say things. Sister Evangelina's lectures are bad enough but Sister Julienne's disappointment is ten times worse.' She dropped her head on her arms and continued with a muffled, '_Why_ didn't someone choke me off?'

'Buck up, old bean,' Chummy said, rallying in the face of Jenny's dismay. 'Worse troubles at sea and all that. It'll all come out in the wash.' She paused as Jenny lifted her head with a sceptical glance. 'Just give Trixie a chance to get used to it. It must've been an awful shock, especially when she and Cynthia have been such chums for so long—'

'Chummy, that really doesn't make me feel any better,' Cynthia put in dolefully, and Chummy looked mortified.

'Lawks, I've put my size tens in it again, haven't I? I, I think I'd better go, Peter and the young sir'll be wanting their tea, and it's a rum business trying to get that stove to go at the best of times, let alone when one's all of a fluster. Dommy sci at Roedean was no preparation for life in the East End.' She was gabbling as she finished, standing behind her chair like a schoolgirl waiting to be dismissed.

Shelagh rose in her turn, her demeanour apologetic. 'I'm afraid I must leave also. I don't like to leave Timothy alone if it can be avoided. The poor boy's had enough of fending for himself since his mother died.'

Cynthia gave a strained smile. 'Of course, Shelagh. We'll see you both tomorrow.'

The former nun looked straight at her, her eyes huge and unblinking behind their upswept rims. 'Hold fast, Cynthia. If the religious life is truly for you, you'll never regret it. There is… much joy in it, although it is not the world's joy.' She made a little movement with her head that reminded the watching Jenny of the days when she'd been Sister Bernadette, and followed Chummy from the kitchen with something of her old glide.

Once they'd gone, Jenny eyed her friend sheepishly across the worn table and the wreckage of their afternoon tea.

'I rather think _I_ should be the one to apologise. I've a horrid feeling I've just made things much worse.'

Cynthia's mouth twitched at the corners as she reached across to tentatively place her hand over Jenny's.

'You were trying to be a friend. I—I never had proper friends before I came to Nonnatus House, just… acquaintances. You know, the people you're polite to and whose cheeks you kiss in greeting…but you know nothing of them and they know nothing of you—and what's more, they don't want to know.' She paused, biting deeply into her lower lip. 'Trixie was the first friend who could honestly be called a chum.' Her voice broke.

Jenny moved her hand so that she could grasp Cynthia's fingers in her own. 'What happens now?'

The other girl expelled a slow breath. 'Sister Julienne told me to get back to her once I'd told my parents and—and you. I think she was setting a test, to see if I could go through with it.'

'Without putting any pressure on you,' Jenny supplemented with a nod, having become wise to the ways of Nonnatus's unassuming Sister-in-Charge. 'That sounds like her.'

Cynthia made an assenting noise. 'Next, she's going to call Mother Jesu Emmanuel and arrange for me to go to Chichester for an interview. If that goes well, Sister Julienne will set a date for me to formally enter Nonnatus as a postulant. She said usually I would be expected to go to the Mother House, but she couldn't spare me—and also that there was a precedent.'

'Will there be a ceremony?' Jenny asked curiously. Much as she enjoyed listening to the devotional life of the community, until Sister Bernadette had renounced her vows she'd barely given the process of becoming a nun a second thought. 'Will you have to change your name?'

'Sister Julienne says it's up to me. I'm, I'm still thinking. I don't want to change just for the sake of it.'

'Either way, we'll have to call you "Sister",' Jenny teased.

Cynthia's sallow skin turned pink. 'Not in private, you won't. As for the ceremony, there isn't one. The big ceremony is the Clothing at the end of the postulancy, Entrance is very quiet.' She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with uncharacteristic mischief. 'But you live here… perhaps you could find a way to watch!'

Jenny grinned. 'I'll ask Fred, or Sister Monica Joan. She loves a secret.' She leaned closer and dropped her voice. 'I'll be there, never you fear.'

'Haven't you girls got anything better to do than to faff around plotting and drinking tea?' Sister Evangelina scolded as she bustled into the kitchen and headed for the cake tin. 'Go on, chop chop! Patients won't nurse themselves!' Taking the hint, the girls exchanged rueful glances and obeyed.

* * *

**August 1958**

* * *

'Cynthia Miller, what is it you ask of this house?' Sister Julienne's voice rang with uncharacteristic authority through the tiled and panelled front hall of Nonnatus House.

The other nuns clustered behind her, attempting to model monastic behaviour for the benefit of their new postulant, their hands clasped behind scapulas and eyes carefully lowered. They seemed mysterious and shrouded, the deep black of their prayer veils causing them to sink into the shadows.

Shelagh shivered as Cynthia's brown head dipped, and she said the words Shelagh herself had blurted out ten years before: 'To try my vocation as a sister within this house of St Raymond Nonnatus.'

'Are you all right?' Jenny whispered. They were standing just inside the big front door; for today, the inner doors would represent the cloister, and until Cynthia's Entrance was complete none of the nurses could go through. 'It must be awfully strange, watching this.'

'Just a bit,' Shelagh murmured back, feeling deliciously wicked as she did so. As a nun, she'd been the youngest, the most recently professed, and at an event such as this she would have been expected to stand in perfectly composed silence. 'It's the first one here since mine,' she admitted with a sigh, as a wave of renewed guilt rose within her. She was content—more than content—in her new vocation, but she still struggled with the feeling that she'd deserted her sisters, most particularly Sister Julienne.

'If it be God's Will, then let it done,' the Sister-in-Charge said, and the nuns' faces were illuminated as each lit a candle, standing with such stillness that the flames burned white and straight.

With Sister Julienne on one side and Sister Evangelina on the other, Cynthia was ushered down the long passage towards the chapel, the other sisters falling in behind. Within moments the corridor was empty once more, and there was a pause before the words of Psalm 121 drifted towards them. _I will lift mine eyes up unto the hills…_

'They must be missing your voice,' Jenny said softly.

Roused from her memories, Shelagh shook her head. 'They don't need it. It's about the words, the prayer, not the music or the beauty of the song.'

The younger woman went quiet and Shelagh took advantage of the moment to close her eyes and follow the psalm her former sisters were singing inside her head; she might no longer wear the veil, but a decade's worth of exposure had burnt the cadences of the Divine Office into her very soul.

The door opened with a shaft of light that penetrated the thin film of Shelagh's eyelids, and she felt Jenny stiffen beside her.

'Is it all done then?' Trixie asked, not bothering to lower her voice. 'Are we still _persona non gratis_? I've been out since late yesterday afternoon, it was Elsie's first baby and I though the little rotter would never come. I'm famished; did Mrs B leave any cake?'

'For the reception,' Jenny told her coolly. 'You know that, you were there when Sister Evangelina warned us we weren't to touch it—or let Sister Monica Joan at it either.'

'So what's happening now?'

Shelagh could hear the attempt at breeziness in Trixie's tone, but it was too forced to be natural and pity surged through her for the girl.

'Sister Julienne and Sister Evangelina will ritually undress Cynthia,' she said, opening her eyes and looking straight into Trixie's. 'A lock of Cynthia's hair will be symbolically cut, and they'll help her into a postulant's short dress. It's blue, just a bit darker than our nurses' uniforms, and she'll need to wear a short veil without the cap at all times.'

Trixie dropped her bag and ran her hands along her arms, her features turning pinched. 'Well, if you ask me it all sounds positively medieval.'

'It is,' Shelagh informed her, not without a touch of dryness. 'It's the first step towards transforming a woman into a nun. It won't be easy,' she continued, anxious that Trixie really understood what their friend was undertaking, 'it will be the most difficult thing Cynthia's ever done.' A pause. 'Even if you don't agree with it, please support her, Trixie. She'll need it.'

Trixie's jaw hardened, but Shelagh did not miss the hint of dampness in her eyes.

'With all due respect, that's codswallop. She's renouncing the world, isn't she? She's turning her back on us, she doesn't need us! She's the one who's walking away, so I wish you'd all stop trying to make me the evil old witch. I'm absolutely fed up of it!' She stooped to lift her bag once more and shot a dark look towards both Shelagh and Jenny. 'Now if you'll excuse me, I've been up entirely too long and I need to get my beauty sleep. If anyone asks, pass on my apologies.'

She brushed past without another word, her heels loud on the polished parquet floor as she made her way done the corridor. Light streamed through the long windows, adding richness to the red of her hat and turning her curls into a halo of gold.

Shelagh heard Jenny blew out a breath that was part sigh and part exasperation.

'Sometimes I'd love to give her a good shaking. Why can't she accept Cynthia's choice?'

Shelagh stared into the depths of the familiar sun-striped corridor. 'She's afraid.'

'Of what?'

The former nun turned to face her younger friend. 'Things are changing, Jenny. Trixie doesn't like change; for all her talk she relishes the security of familiar things. Now I'm a nurse instead of a nun, Chummy's married and a mother, you're walking out with Alec'—whereat Jenny blushed—'and Cynthia, who has been her bulwark since they first arrived here three years ago, is contemplating becoming a nun.'

Jenny chewed lightly on her lip. 'You think I should be kind, instead of annoyed.'

'I think you should always choose kindness,' Shelagh corrected. 'It's our duty to love everyone, even when we think they're acting wrongly. Perhaps even _especially_ when we think they're acting wrongly.'

The phone rang and Shelagh—as the nurse on call—began to move towards it; with Cynthia's Entrance over and done Nonnatus House was once again open. As she listened to the details of the latest mother in labour, her eyes sought out Jenny, still standing in the corridor, and she sighed. Jenny was as disturbed as Trixie about Cynthia's decision to pursue her vocation; unlike Trixie, she just hadn't realised it yet. There would be ructions in the days and weeks to come; Shelagh was sure of it.

* * *

_If you're interested in seeing more, please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

_I've been overwhelmed by the response to the first chapter. I honestly didn't expect so much enthusiasm for this premise, so I'm thrilled people want to read more! So without further ado..._

* * *

**Nonnatus House, 5.30am**

* * *

Cynthia was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by a soft rap on her door followed by the assault of the yellow overhead light, the impact of which was only slightly filtered by the growing September dawn outside. She groaned and threw her forearm up over her eyes, wishing she could plead exhaustion or illness and gain an extra precious hour in bed.

As a lay nurse, the nuns were sympathetic, often waking her with a cup of tea and a gentle enquiry for her health. Now, as a postulant, she was expected to rise with the dawn and present herself promptly in chapel for the singing of Morning Prayer, regardless of how late she had got to bed the night before or how tired she was—and without the tea or Nescafé. Becoming a postulant had given her a new whole respect for Sisters Evangelina and Julienne; both women were well into their fifties—at _least_, as Trixie had once said—and yet they fulfilled every one of their monastic and medical duties without fail or complaint.

Wearily, Cynthia threw back her covers and blinked blearily at the chair which bore her carefully laid-out postulant's garb. It had fallen to Sister Evangelina to show her how she was expected to lay out her habit each night, and the nun had done so with her customary energy and forcefulness. She had ended with the dire warning that Cynthia's cell (cell!) would be inspected regularly, by either herself or Sister Julienne, and there would be hell to pay if anything was out of line. Nun or not, Sister Evangelina never minced her words, and she certainly was not going to begin now, even if the younger woman _had_ become Nonnatus's first postulant in a decade.

After stumbling into her clothes, Cynthia squinted at herself in the tiny four-by-four mirror that was all she was allowed to check that her veil was on straight, and collected her prayer books before making her way to chapel. She was the last one in, she noted, and facing Sister Monica Joan's pursed lips was almost as bad as Sister Evanglina's scowl.

Her face flamed as she slipped quietly into her place at back, as befitted the most junior member of the community, and bent her head over her breviary as the nuns' voices rose in their daily thanks for the new day. Much to her relief, she was not yet expected to join in; Sister Julienne had said it was enough to simply be present, to slowly absorb the words and deceptive simplicity of the plainsong before attempting it.

She was glad of the respite, glad of these oases of stillness that punctuated the breathless whirlwind her life had become.

She had gone from being merely madly busy to impossibly busy; it seemed that every hour of every day was filled with dozens of tasks that must be completed perfectly. As a nurse, she must be as professional and cheery as always, even as patients eyed 'the little one' with fascinated curiosity and attempted to grill her on her new life as a Nonnatun as opposed to simply a midwife. As a postulant, every word, every gesture, every glance, was monitored by the nuns as they attempted to assess her suitability to proceed into the novitiate.

As if _that_ wasn't enough, there was the new strain in her relationships with her fellow nurses; she'd always been the quiet, sensible one of their chummery, but never before had she entered the kitchen to the sound of gay chatter—only for awkward silence to descend as soon as she made her presence known. Cynthia had never expected to _enjoy_ her postulancy, but she could not have anticipated that it would be so bone-wearyingly exhausting, or so soul-chillingly _lonely_.

She hadn't realised she was half-dozing where she stood until a gentle hand descended on her arm.

'Sister Cynthia?' Sister Julienne prompted. 'Are you all right?'

They were alone in the chapel, Cynthia realised with a start, and hot tears of embarrassment flooded her eyes. For once she was grateful for the rule that stated she must curtsy to a senior nun; more often that not, she forgot (and Sister Julienne was both too busy and too practical to insist on it) but now it came as a blessed relief, an excuse to duck her head and hide her face.

'_Sister_,' Sister Julienne said, more firmly this time, and holy obedience meant that Cynthia must look up at the older woman, quivering lip and all. 'You're not all right, are you?' Sister Julienne went on, and Cynthia lost the battle with her tears and shook her head dumbly as they streaked rebelliously down her cheeks.

Her superior sighed and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her towards one of the hard straight chairs that stood in the place of pews.

'Sit,' Sister Julienne ordered, doing so herself. There was a pause as Cynthia tried to regain a semblance of self-control, her breath hitching and gasping as she struggled to repress the storm of sobs that wanted to come. 'Do you want to tell me about it?'

The warm voice unhooked something deep inside Cynthia, and she did something she had not done since she was a tiny girl. She pitched forward into Sister Julienne's arms, buried her face in worn fabric of the nun's habit, and wept until she had no more tears to shed and was completely limp.

Eventually, she drew back, shaking from the tears and the exertion of moving. 'I—I'm sorry,' she gasped. 'I don't know what came over me, you must think I'm a awful baby—'

Sister Julienne stopped her with the merest of gestures. 'I think that you are tired and overwhelmed and heartsick… does that sound right?' she added with a smile that lit her eyes.

Cynthia nodded and sniffled as she dug in her pocket for one of the stiffly starched squares that now comprised her hanky. 'H—how did you know?'

Sister Julienne laughed, surprising her.

'I was the same. Evangelina too, although I daresay she'll deny it if you were to ask. Everyone goes through this at some point—either as a postulant or a novice. Indeed, one of the old sisters at the Mother House is fond of saying that any nun who does _not_ experience a storm such as yours is not fit to stay. We need passion in Nonnatus, women of feeling and empathy, if we're to complete our mission; someone who's so perfectly controlled that they cannot admit to weariness or loneliness or even simple frustration is no use to us.'

'I—I thought we were trying to be perfect—'

Once again, Sister Julienne laughed. '_Striving_ for perfection, Sister. There's a subtle difference. But we also admit that we're only human, and that like any human we're prey to doubts and despair.'

She sat in stillness for a moment, the light through the window falling on her serene expression, and Cynthia felt herself calm as she watched. If even Sister Julienne had experienced this, then perhaps there was hope for her after all. Questions hovered on her tongue; how long would this feeling last, this sense of being an awkward cog in a giant wheel, this feeling of not belonging, of not being able to do anything right… but she suppressed it, exhaling a long sigh.

Sister Julienne's gaze snapped back to her, but its quality had changed; now it was not senior nun to distraught postulant, but rather the assessing, examining look of a trained nurse.

'I want you to take a cell day,' she said at last, and Cynthia's eyes widened. 'I know it's unorthodox at this stage of your postulancy, but most postulants are not juggling the demands of learning the religious life together with full time nursing and midwifery. It won't hurt the others to cover your calls for once.'

Cynthia's heart sank as the implications of the dictum dawned. 'Trixie's supposed to be off today,' she reminded the older woman humbly. 'If I'm off too, you'll be shorthanded.'

'Nurse Franklin can take tomorrow instead,' Sister Julienne returned firmly. 'You need this more than she does; we'll be even more shorthanded if you get ill, and Doctor Turner was telling me yesterday that he's got concerns about this new 'flu virus; if it takes hold we could be looking at a major epidemic.'

Seeing no help for it, Cynthia inclined her head. 'What–what does a cell day mean?' she asked, her voice trembling. 'D—do I have to stay in my room?'

'Traditionally, that's exactly what it means, but you haven't yet taken vows. You are here entirely by your own choice. However, I am placing you under obedience to spend at least _some_ of the day quietly in rest and reflection; later, if you wish, you may join the girls in the garden. I understand the Noakes' are coming with young Freddie, and the Turners are bringing Timothy and an extra-special cake for Sister Monica Joan's ninety-third birthday.'

Cynthia managed a watery smile. 'Wasn't Mrs B offended?'

Sister Julienne's eyes sparkled with mischief. 'Indeed not. I believe she saw it as a challenge; when Shelagh informed her that it was to be her treat, Mrs B went ahead and began to bake her own version. The biggest and best cake she's ever made, from what she told me. I think,' she ended with a conspiratorial smile, 'we are condemned to gluttony for a while, since the alternative is to waste the cakes and you know how Sister Monica Joan feels about profligacy.'

Now it was Cynthia's turn to laugh, and Sister Julienne beamed as she rose to her feet in a single smooth movement that set the cord at her waist to a gentle swinging.

'You're looking better now,' she observed. 'It must be past breakfast; go to your cell and I'll send someone to you with toast and tea—or would you prefer Nescafé?'

'Nescafé, _please_, if it wouldn't be too much trouble.' Cynthia did not care that her fervency had set Sister Julienne's eyes to twinkling; the nuns usually drank tea, seeing Nescafé as an unnecessary indulgence. 'I—I…Thank you, Sister.' She stumbled over the words, longing to say more, but her tongue twisted into knots and forbade it.

'No thanks are necessary,' Sister Julienne told her, indicating the door. 'Go. Have a good rest and I'll see you later.'

Cynthia nodded and bobbed a curtsy before going quietly on her way; she could not speak her gratitude, but she could express it by following the rules with punctilious care. All the same, behind the gratitude and the relief that came from being granted a day of grace, her stomach churned with something more than simple hunger. Trixie would not be impressed at Sister Julienne's arrangements, and Cynthia's anticipation at the afternoon's party was tempered by dread. Trixie would _not_ be impressed, and there was little doubt that by the end of the day Cynthia would know _all_ about it…

* * *

**Nonnatus House, 5.45pm**

* * *

Trixie closed the front door with her foot, one hand reaching up to drag her hat from her head, grimacing as the pins that secured it brought several strands of hair with them. She was tired, dog-tired in a way she had not felt since… well, since she'd first come to Nonnatus. Time had inured her to their long days and usually she was bright and bubbly no matter how long she'd been on her feet—but usually she was sensible about rest and sleep and snatching it when she could. _Carpe diem_ and all that, as Chummy would say.

Last night, however, she'd decided to take advantage of her upcoming day off, and after several large cups of Nescafé—so large that Sister Evangelina had grumbled—she'd taken herself to bed with a deliciously naughty novel, secure in the knowledge that she could read as long as she liked. It was well into the early hours before she turned off her lamp and she'd sunk at once into a profound slumber…only to be roused by Sister Julienne long before she was ready with a touch on her shoulder and the inevitable cup of tea.

'I'm sorry to wake you, Nurse,' Sister Julienne had said, 'but Sister Cynthia is unwell and I need you to cover for her today. You may take tomorrow instead, if that suits.'

No-one ever argued with Sister Julienne. She had a trick of making requests that were actually orders with such an air of gentle apology that it was almost impossible to refuse—and if anyone _did_ have the temerity to protest, they were usually settled by a quizzical raise of the eyebrows.

Trixie had encountered that look too many times in her early days at Nonnatus to invite it now, so she'd simply sighed and said of course she'd cover for Cynthia. It was hardly Cynthia's fault if she was ill, and much though she might hate to admit it, her nurse's eye had noted that the new postulant was looking increasingly worn and drawn.

Sister Julienne had rewarded her with a smile. 'Excellent. Don't forget that Sister Monica Joan's party is to start at five this evening, if patients permit.'

Trixie had forced a grin as she swung her feet out of bed and reached for her dressing gown and toilet bag. 'Better pray no-one goes into labour, Sister, or I haven't the faintest hope of making it.'

The Sister in Charge had smiled and left, and Trixie had gritted her teeth and thrown herself into her day: three women complaining of Braxton-Hicks, five children with snotty noses and sore throats, any number of distressed mothers and colicky babies, and one mother-to-be who'd tested positive for toxaemia. _That_ had required a call to Doctor Turner and a trip to the London as Trixie had felt obliged to accompany the ambulance; the mother was very young, not much past seventeen, and terrified by the idea of going into hospital at all.

And now, at last, she was home—and late. The party would be in full swing by this time and a peep into the kitchen did nothing to improve her mood; the table was a wreck of crumbs and plates and half-finished cups of tea. Trixie's heart sank all the way to the toes of her sensible loafers and she bit deep into her lip; was it too much to have expected _someone_ to think of her and keep something back?

'Jenny and I put some goodies in the soup pot,' Cynthia's voice said behind her, and she whirled. 'We shouldn't have had to, really, between Mrs B and the Turners we _should_ have had enough to feed all of us _and_ Chummy's Scouts—'

Against expectations, Trixie felt her spirits begin to rise. 'What happened?'

Cynthia's eyes danced. 'We forgot to allow for the three insatiables: one toddler, one ten year old, and a geriatric nun. Between them they _flattened_ those cakes, Trixie. We couldn't believe it. Sister Evangelina's threatening to get out the castor oil.'

'So I should hope,' Trixie responded haughtily as she began to investigate the cupboards for Mrs B's giant soup-pot. 'Ah-ha!' Triumphantly, she drew it out of its hiding place and dumped it on the floor before removing the lid, her eyes popping as she looked in. 'Goodness gracious, Cynthia, this is positively decadent. Whatever is Sister Julienne thinking of? Chocolate cake _and_ tray bakes _and _victoria sponge?'

'With Mrs B's strawberry jam, made from our own berries over the summer,' Cynthia supplemented, and Trixie gave a little groan as her mouth watered. Mrs B's homemade jams were almost better than her cakes—and they were divine.

'I'll get you a plate,' Cynthia added, suiting the action to the words.

Humming appreciatively, Trixie began to move the sweet stuff from pot to plate while Cynthia went to boil the kettle. The sounds of clashing metal and running water drew her gaze up from her plate and she frowned in sudden recollection.

'I thought you were supposed to be ill,' she said abruptly, the warmth vanishing from her tone. 'That's what Sister Julienne said when she asked me to cover for you.'

She could see the blue line of Cynthia's back stiffen.

'I wasn't ill, _exactly_,' the other girl said at last, turning slowly to face Trixie with apologetic eyes. 'It was just… everything got on top of me and I fell apart, rather.'

Trixie's mouth set in a hard line. 'So _I_ had to give up my day off—the first one I've had in simply ages—because _you_ couldn't cope with the consequences of your own choices?'

Cynthia went white. 'I—'

More words hovered on the edge of Trixie's tongue, bitter, hurtful words that could not easily be rescinded. Her teeth ground with the effort of keeping quiet, and all she could manage was a 'Never mind,' as she rose, gripping her china plate tightly, and swept out of the kitchen and down the corridor to the door that lead out to the garden, fuelled all the way by a sense of righteous indignation.

So it was all right for Cynthia to have an off day, but if any of the nurses complained of tiredness they got nothing but short shrift? It was not fair, there was so much work to do in Poplar and it could only be done if everyone did her bit. Shirking—and in Trixie's book that was exactly what Cynthia was doing—shouldn't be allowed, postulant or not!

The warm sun of a Indian summer evening half-blinded her as she emerged into the garden. When the fog had cleared, she realised Jenny was waving and making her way over, and the cold feeling inside eased.

'So you got it, then,' the other nurse observed as she reached Trixie, indicating the plate. 'I wondered where Cynthia had gone.'

'She's still in the kitchen,' Trixie said shortly.

Jenny's eyes widened. 'You haven't had a row, have you?' Trixie's compressed lips said it all. 'Oh, _Trixie_! And after it was Cynthia's idea to put some food aside for you too!' She began to brush past, and Trixie's heart seemed to jump into her throat.

'Where are you going?' she called, once she'd persuaded her voice to work.

Jenny turned, a silhouette picked out in glowing yellow as her skirts swirled about her. 'Where do you think?'

She vanished indoors and Trixie shivered as she began to absentmindedly pulverise her cake into crumbs with the sharp edge of her fork; the cold feeling had returned, stronger than ever, as she scanned the figures in the garden before her. Sister Julienne and Shelagh, the nun's head bent attentively as the younger woman talked; Sister Evangelina and Doctor Turner chatting—about work, doubtless, given Sister Evangelina's emphatic gestures; Chummy and Peter, utterly absorbed in each other while Fred assisted his young namesake in his investigation of the contents of Mrs B's herb garden; Timothy sitting at Sister Monica Joan's feet, his eyes wide and rapt as she reminisced… and in the house, Jenny had gone to Cynthia, leaving Trixie feeling unwanted and alone.

Her mouth set in a hard straight line. If they didn't want her for anything but work, that was just fine and dandy. She had other resources at her fingertips, other friends that could be summoned by placing a single phone call—friends who were significantly more lively and fun than any of the denizens of Nonnatus House. It wasn't as if she'd ever wanted to live in a nunnery anyway, that had simply happened by default, and living in a convent didn't make _her_ a nun, no matter what Cynthia had decided.

The decision made, Trixie deliberately placed her plate of half-eaten cake on the step, twisted on her heel, and went to make the call.

* * *

The detail about curtsying to a senior nun is taken from _Sisters of the East End_, a conflated biography about the current head of the Community of St John the Divine. Comments, concrit, ideas, anything... very welcome. Also nitpicking for typos etc. I don't have a beta and with all the re-reading in the world I often miss things.

**Next time**: Trixie breaks out, Jenny tries to help, and Cynthia's caught between two loyalties.


	3. Chapter 3

_Here's chapter three! I'm really nervous about it because it's very character driven: it takes place (all 3000 words plus of it) within a few hours and not much actually happens, but it does move things forward, I promise. However, just because I am so nervous and because my confidence has taken a bit of a hit with this, I'd like to beg and implore for feedback. Any feedback, honestly. I'm not thin-skinned about my writing (two published novels and a doctoral thesis doesn't really leave room for it) and I do consider everything that's said. Plus, when I'm doing a longer piece like this the feedback keeps me motivated and is often useful in indicating paths the plot might take; my longest fic to date (in the _Waterloo Road_ fandom) took an entirely different slant as a result of a comment made by a reviewer._

_And on that note, mega _mega_ thanks go to _**Lady Eleanor Boleyn **_for her review of the last chapter!_

* * *

**An evening in late September…**

* * *

Trixie brushed a curl behind her ear as she entered the kitchen, seeking a late night snack after being out to a delivery that had proven to be long if not technically difficult. All she wanted was food, drink and companionship, not necessarily in that order, and thus far she having little success in achieving either. Jenny was out with Alec, Chummy and Shelagh were at home, Cynthia was doubtless with the nuns… even Jane had deserted them, having finally married her Reverend Applebee-Thornton some weeks before.

'And to add insult to injury, there's nothing in the kitchen apart from today's bread!' Trixie slammed the bread bin closed with a vim that threatened to crack the rim of Sister Evangelina's prized ceramic jar and slumped into a seat, still food and drinkless.

She sat for a long moment, staring at the scratched and worn surface of the table. She'd partaken of so many meals at this table, meals of fun and laughter while the old wood groaned from the weight of the goodies placed upon it. And now… Perhaps it _was_ time to move on. Find a position in a hospital, although her free-spirited soul quailed at the thought of subjecting itself to that harsh hierarchy. She couldn't bear the thought of a district practice that was not Nonnatus or Poplar; somehow, this place and the people in it had entwined themselves in her very being. Leaving would be a wrench, but she'd get over it. She'd survive, just as she'd survived a childhood dominated by the unspoken horrors of her nights and the all-too-tangible daily privations of a world at war.

Her slippers were silent as she padded down the corridor, slowing only when she passed the chapel. The nuns' voices carried, sweet and clear, and through the open door (it was always open, a silent reminder to the lay nurses that they too were welcome)Trixie could see Cynthia. She seemed dwarfed as she stood between Sisters Julienne and Monica Joan—a small figure, somehow even smaller than she'd been as just another nurse, sinking below the weight of the blue habit she wore…Trixie gave herself a shake. Exhaustion was making her fanciful; Cynthia was precisely where she wanted to be, where she'd _chosen_ to be… just as Chummy and Shelagh and Jenny were. Only Trixie seemed to have no place that was not garbed in grey and cherry-red, cycling feverishly from one patient to the next.

Her throat closed and she moved on stealthy feet away from the chapel, her hands embracing her arms as she attempted to rub some warmth into them. Her thoughts were poor company tonight, and tomorrow would be a busy day, they all were… A nightcap would be just the thing—just a little one, enough to still the voices in her mind— and allow her to sleep in readiness to face the new day.

* * *

**The next morning, 8.00am**

* * *

The phone had pealed five times before Jenny realised something was wrong. She put her triangle of toast carefully on the plate and glanced across the table at Shelagh Turner, who'd arrived early after walking Timothy to school.

'Trixie's on call, isn't she?'

Shelagh nodded. 'That's what the board says.' She looked sheepish. 'I still check it every day, even though it's a while yet before Patrick and Sister Julienne will allow me back to work properly.'

Jenny pushed her chair back and swallowed her mouthful of toast. 'She must've forgotten. I'll go and call her; she's jolly lucky it was just us and not Sister Evangelina!'

'Sister Evangelina's already gone, Sister Julienne told me when I arrived as she was on her way out to the Harrises. Sister Evangelina shouldn't have gone at all, but one of her past patients has gone into labour and wouldn't have anyone but her. You know what some of the women can be like.'

Jenny grinned and nodded, swiping another triangle of toast as she turned on her heel and left the kitchen. She might as well finish her breakfast, she thought as she made her way towards Trixie's room; life at Nonnatus House was many things—but it could never be called predictable, and Jenny had learned swiftly to eat and drink when she could.

There was no answer to her light rap on Trixie's door, and a step back did not reveal the gleam of yellow electric light that would indicate that the other nurse was, at the very least, awake. Jenny's brows creased in concern as she gently turned the handle and peeked in. Perhaps Trixie was ill. Perhaps she'd caught that nasty 'flu Doctor Turner was becoming increasingly worried about.

'Trixie?'

The call was soft, gentle enough not to jar a pounding head, but years as a singer had taught Jenny to project her voice well, and she knew there was no way Trixie could have failed to hear. Like all nurses, she slept lightly.

Concern turned into outright worry as Jenny's instincts came to the fore and she crossed to her friend's side in three steps—only to recoil at the sight of the tooth glass lying on the pillow. Its contents were made obvious by the smell and the presence of the familiar bottle on the bedside table.

Gentleness evaporated.

Jenny pivoted on her heel to push the door closed and switch on the overhead light; Trixie did not even stir, and Jenny had to lean in and give the other girl a good shaking before she showed any signs of rousing.

Eventually, Trixie gave a groan, raising a hand to cover her eyes. 'Whad'ja do that for?'

'You're on call,' Jenny responded coolly, her tones more clipped than usual. 'The phone's already started ringing, and Shelagh's had to answer. You'd better pray good and hard that it wasn't an emergency or all hell's going to break loose.'

'I—I don' understand—'

'Does this help?' Jenny asked, snatching the bottle from the table and giving it a shake. 'It's almost empty, Trixie. What were you _thinking_?'

The other girl's eyes filled with tears. 'I—I'm sorry, Jen, I just wanted to sleep and my mind wouldn't stop, you know what it's like after a long day—'

'You've got ten minutes to get yourself dressed and in your right mind.' Jenny sounded harsher than she'd intended, but she was genuinely shocked. 'If I were you I'd hurry and get downstairs before Sister Julienne returns—'

Trixie sat up so abruptly that Jenny reared back in surprise—and just in time. The sudden change in position turned Trixie's complexion from white to green and she made an urgent motion. Jenny's mouth twisted in disgust as she fetched the old-fashioned basin that stood in one corner and held it as her friend retched into it.

'Thanks.' Trixie wiped at her mouth and when she glanced up, Jenny realised that the blue eyes were deeply shadowed. She softened; Trixie was clearly telling the truth about needing help to sleep.

'Don't mention it, just… buck up and get down there. I'll take the basin.'

'No.' Trixie shook her head and the flattened curls moved lethargically. 'Leave it. I'll clean it up, it's my mess. I'm better now, honestly I am, I—'

'It's all right,' Jenny interrupted hurriedly. 'I'd better go, it's not fair to leave Shelagh alone with any questions—' She gave an awkward smile and Trixie nodded, indicating with a gesture that she could depart.

She could not get out of the room fast enough, her sensitive stomach already churning from the combination of shock and the smells wafting around Trixie's tiny abode. It wasn't that she could not handle such smells; she was, after all, a trained nurse, but encountering them so unexpectedly had thrown her off-balance. She leaned against the cool corridor walls and closed her eyes as she strove to get herself under control. There was no knowing who would be downstairs by now, and she didn't trust herself to be able to keep mum in the face of Sister Evangelina's hectoring questions or Sister Julienne's softer enquiries. At least she could hear the sound of movement within the room; that meant Trixie had taken her at her word and would be downstairs herself in short order. That was a relief; for a moment there Jenny's imagination had gone into overdrive and she'd wondered whether she should stay, in case Trixie was overcome once again.

* * *

**8.15am**

* * *

Meanwhile, Shelagh had watched the clock throughout the entire duration of Jenny's absence, her anxiety deepening with every passing minute.

'What happened?' she fired at Jenny when the younger woman re-entered the kitchen. 'Is Trixie ill?'

Jenny's lips tightened as she took her seat, she same one she'd used earlier. 'No. I wish she was.'

'Jenny!'

'She was _drinking_, Shelagh!' Jenny flung at her. 'She finished that bottle of Advocaat, the one Cynthia got her after the incident with the Thomas baby, remember?' Shelagh nodded. 'We'd hardly touched it. It was stashed away somewhere and we forgot about it—including Trixie. I know that for a fact because she asked me to buy another bottle just before your wedding.'

Shelagh swallowed hard before asking, softly, 'Is she well enough to work?'

'She has to be, doesn't she?' Moodily, Jenny began to play with the cold remnants of toast that still lay on her plate. 'I'm absolutely raging with her,' she went on more quietly. 'Honestly, I don't know what's got into her these days. Ever since you—' She broke off, her expression guilty.

Shelagh bit into her lip as the familiar pang of guilt lanced her. 'Ever since I left the Order and Cynthia joined it, you mean.'

Jenny gave a shamefaced nod.

'That's neither here nor there,' Shelagh said, allowing a note of sternness to creep into her tones. 'The fact remains that she's been drinking, regardless of her reasons. Her career would be ruined, never to mention what it would do to Nonnatus's reputation if it got out, if the authorities discovered it. Our reputation would be ruined!' She did not realise until later that she'd spoken of herself as though she were still a member of the Order. _In extremis_ old habits died very hard.

Jenny leaned across the table, her eyes pleading. 'That's why no-one must find out.'

'Sister Julienne should be told, if she was to discover it later—'

'_Especially_ Sister Julienne.'

* * *

**8.35am**

* * *

The sound of her name drifting from the kitchen made Sister Julienne halt as she moved to close the front door, and a fine line deepened between her brows as she blew out a quiet sigh.

Nonnatus House had always been a busy place, and as with any busy place, it had seen its fair share of upsets and squalls as the strains and stresses of a demanding job took its toll. And yet… such squalls had always been shortlived, over almost as soon as they started. This time it was different. An atmosphere lurked, dampening spirits and killing harmony. Even the nuns were affected; Sister Evangelina's temper was shorter than usual, Sister Monica Joan had taken to swooping in at meals, retrieving a plate of cakes, and swooping out again just as quickly while Evangelina fumed and the girls tried to sink into their seats. When Sister Julienne remonstrated, the older woman had looked down her aristocratic nose and informed her that the vibrations were not conducive to good digestion, and that she preferred to consume her comestibles elsewhere. Unable to argue, Sister Julienne had let it go; she supposed she could (and perhaps even _should_) have put Monica Joan under obedience, but she'd long ago learned to pick her battles.

Now she allowed the door to fall shut with more firmness than was her wont. As a result she was unsurprised when Shelagh emerged from the kitchen, the familiar eyes concerned beneath the still-unfamiliar honey-blonde hair.

'Let me take your bag, Sister,' Shelagh said, moving to do precisely that. 'How were the Harrises?'

Sister Julienne paused in the act of unbuttoning her coat. 'They could be better. The baby still isn't feeding well; I think we need to put them back on twice daily visits lest the situation deteriorate further.'

'Shall I tell Patrick?'

Julienne considered as she followed her into the clinic. 'Perhaps you should mention it, but I don't think there's a need for undue concern as yet.' She studied the younger woman as Shelagh opened Julienne's bag and began the routine of cleaning the instruments. 'You don't have to do that—'

A bright smile flashed, all teeth and light sparkling off glasses. 'I want to. You look tired and Sister Evangelina's been grumbling about you working too hard.' The smile vanished to be replaced by a look of worry. 'Does she think I'm not pulling my weight? I'll come back if—'

'No,' Julienne interrupted firmly. 'No, my dear. I won't countenance your returning to work properly until both your husband _and_ the London have given you the all-clear, and you know they said you must take care for some time yet.' She tried for a smile. 'It's not the work that's making me tired.' It was one of the things she relished about Shelagh's new status; she could speak to her with greater freedom than ever before. 'Nonnatus has always felt like home, warm and welcoming, and now—'

As if to underline her words, shrill voices sounded from the kitchen.

'…need to be such a prig, Jenny Lee!'

'I'll let you wallow in your own juices next time, shall I?' Jenny's voice was always excruciatingly clear and it carried easily to the nun's ears. 'It's bad enough that we've as good as lost Cynthia, are you trying to get yourself sacked? You know Sister Julienne wouldn't stand for—'

Moving quickly, Julienne closed the clinic door. She did not wish to hear any more.

Shelagh was chewing her lip, her grey eyes troubled. 'Sister—'

Julienne raised a hand and Shelagh stopped mid-word, an automatic reflex. 'Don't tell me,' the older woman told her gently. 'I don't wish to know—because if I know I must become involved, and it would be _so_ much better for us all if those three could sort out their own difficulties.'

'Do you think they _can_?'

Once again, Julienne sighed, the weight of her responsibilities dragging on her shoulders as never before. 'I'm praying for it.'

Shelagh's smile was luminous. 'Then it'll happen, but I don't think He'd mind if we give Him a wee bit of help!' She gave a touchingly brisk nod, a gesture that was part Sister Bernadette and part Patrick Turner. 'Leave it with me, Sister. I'll find a way, even if I have to knock their eejit heads together.'

Julienne reached across to squeeze her young friend's shoulder. 'Then my prayers have already been answered.'

* * *

**8.40am**

* * *

Cynthia crept into the kitchen, going unnoticed by her friends. Their positions were combative; Trixie stood with her hands on her hips and Jenny's chin was tilted at an angle that could almost be described as arrogant.

'You're the selfish one!' Trixie was flinging at Jenny. 'What was I supposed to do? Chummy and Shelagh spend their nights with their families, even Jane—_Jane_!—has gone, and now you seem to be spending every spare moment you have with yet another squeeze—'

'You're the one who's been nagging me about my love life!'

'I didn't expect you to become so engrossed that you'd forget everyone else!'

'Ah.' Something in Jenny's tone made Cynthia still, like a mouse that's chanced upon a tail-twitching cat. 'That's what all this is about, isn't it. You're jealous, you can't deal with the fact that the rest of us have all lives of our own while you're just—'

'_Stop it_!' Cynthia couldn't believe the words had come from her own mouth; judging from the looks on the girls' faces, neither could they. 'Just listen to yourselves! What if the nuns had come in and heard?'

Trixie's glare swivelled. 'One _did_.'

Cynthia's breath hitched. 'I'm not a nun yet, I'm—I'm only trying. I've a long way to go. I'm, I'm still here, Trixie!' she burst out. 'Ever since I told you, you've been behaving as though I'm invisible. Well, I'm not. I'm still _here_!'

'In body. Not in spirit, not in the things that matter!'

'Like _what_?'

'Like…. Oh, like giggling over men, and drinking, and gossiping and dancing.. All the things we used to do and now we can't because you want to be a _nun_—'

Cynthia drew a shuddering breath. 'Is that all you want from a friend? A—a good time?'

Trixie's expression shadowed and her fingers twitched, as though she was reaching for an imaginary cigarette. 'What else is there?'

Jenny threw Cynthia a significant glance, but the postulant did not return it. The truth was that she was feeling rather sickened; Trixie was _not_ that shallow and Jenny—dear Jenny—could not be so spiteful…and yet just now they had proved that they could indeed be both of those things.

Had they always been this way? Perhaps their easy offers of friendship had blinded her; she'd been so pathetically grateful to have someone to gossip and giggle with on her own account, rather than be perpetually on the outside looking in. And yet the fun (and it _had_ been fun, she could admit that) had never truly satisfied her; she had much preferred the long conversations she'd had with Jenny, curled up on the latter's bed with a huge mug of tea, to any of Trixie's frenetic evenings of drink and dance.

Confusion and hurt turned her quiet until Shelagh entered, reminding them snippily that patients were waiting and Nurse Franklin had paperwork to finish from the night before. _That_ caused a further exchange of bitter looks between Jenny and Trixie until the former tossed her head and departed, while Trixie stalked into the clinic, slamming the door behind her with such force that it rattled through the old wood.

Shelagh turned to Cynthia, her gaze glinting behind her glasses. 'Haven't you patients to attend this morning, Sister?'

Cynthia nodded, flushing. 'I'm on my way, Sister.' She closed her eyes in mortification and blurted out the correction: '_Shelagh_. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—' More agitated than she wanted to show (a nun was supposed to be serene always, like Sister Julienne) she began to move towards the double doors.

'Wait.'

Reluctantly she turned, her hands clenching in the deep pockets of her short postulant's dress.

'Come to dinner,' Shelagh offered unexpectedly. 'Just us. Patrick's out late and Timothy's got Cubs and… well, to be perfectly honest, I'd appreciate the company. I'm not used to spending so much time alone.'

'I… Am I allowed? Will Sister Julienne permit it?' Cynthia was taken aback by the wave of longing that swept through her, the desire to get away from Nonnatus on a matter entirely unconnected with work.

Shelagh's smile was soft with understanding. 'Of course, but you'll have to ask her. She's your novice mistress and you owe her complete obedience at this stage… but she'll allow it. I know it.'

Cynthia gave a jerky nod. 'OK, I'll ask. When I get back, I need to go if I'm to get to the Thompsons for their checkup and they're anxious after what happened last time—'

Shelagh grinned the wide grin that was starting to flash more frequently now. 'Then what are you standing here for? _Go_!'

Cynthia did not have to be told twice, but as she scrambled into her new (old) navy coat and scuttled down the stone steps towards her bike she was aware that her heart was lighter than it had been for many days.

* * *

_Is there enough Cynthia in this? I know people liked the idea of it being very Cynthia-centric, whereas in reality it's becoming more of an ensemble fic. Let me know what you think!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Many, _many_ thanks to the lovely people who reviewed last time! Comments to follow, partly so that everyone gets a response regardless of whether or not they're signed in, and partly because I always seem to get reviews on the run and later forget about them, so…(Most recent first):**

**Guest**: I do love shippy stuff—and I love LOVE the delicacy and subtlety of the Turners' relationship and how it's been handled—but I heart ensemble/gen most of all, and I love this show because it allows us to read/watch/write so many permutations of love. Actually, the Turners are great for that: they form a crucible at the very heart of the show where you've got manifestations of parental love, sisterhood, divine love, friendship, romance... you name it, they got it. I think that may be why they've become so central.

**EleanorKate**: Thanks! Gotta try to keep it going, though. Methinks a rewatch is in order or I'm in danger of losing the characters' voices.

**Waitinginthestarsforyou**: Sorry, my computer insisted on the capital 'w' there! Yay, I'm glad you agree going beyond Cynthia's pov is a good idea; I was concerned about that.

**Guest**: Thanks! :)

**Sarah**: Thank you very much! I'd love it if they used this storyline in the show, but I'm not sure they will, especially now that it seems to be veering more and more away from the books. That's not a criticism, btw, but it was one of the reasons I decided to write this, because I wasn't convinced we'd see it on telly.

**LadyEleanorBoleyn**: *g* Glad Shelagh amused you in the last chapter! I just channelled my inner Ulster-Scottiness. Yes, I know that isn't a word… I'm assuming Shelagh's C of E to become an Anglican nun, but I'm pretty sure there's plenty of that Presbyterian independence in there too!

This bit is shorter than usual, and all Shelagh—and there's a little Turnadette for good measure!

* * *

**At the Turners'**

* * *

Shelagh hummed softly in time to the wireless as she moved around her small dining room, setting the table in preparation for her guest. The pot was bubbling on the stove—a nice warming soup, with bread that Mrs B had sent over that morning followed by Shelagh's first proper attempt at cake. She wasn't sure it would match that of Nonnatus's redoubtable cook, but Cynthia was too polite to complain. And even if _she_ didn't eat it, Timothy assuredly would, being possessed of the usual appetite of not-quite-teenage boys.

A knock sounded on the door, and Shelagh gave a final quick glance around, ensuring everything was as it should be before going to answer it. She'd never really considered herself a homebody, but keeping house had become an unexpected joy and delight since her marriage.

'Welcome,' she greeted Cynthia as the younger woman entered, looking bowed and bedraggled and utterly sopping. 'Goodness, I hadn't realised it was raining so hard.'

'Started about fifteen minutes ago,' Cynthia panted as she wrestled with her coat. 'It was an absolute downpour, the kind where the raindrops plop rather than fall.' She pulled her arm from the clinging coat and Shelagh could see that she was shivering.

'Come along, let's get you warm,' she urged, ushering the postulant into the cosy living room. 'And take your veil off, it's positively dripping.'

Cynthia's hands flew to the short white veil that framed her face, grimacing as her fingers discovered the truth of Shelagh's words. 'All the starch has gone.'

'Take it off,' Shelagh repeated. 'It's all right,' she added more gently when Cynthia looked dubious, 'No-one will find out, and anyhow, no-one will thank you if you catch your death of cold because you insisted on hanging onto it on a night like this!'

Her only answer was a weak smile, and Shelagh took the pathetic scrap of white as she pushed Cynthia into a seat. 'Give me a moment to take care of this.' She bustled into the kitchen and back, having carefully placed the veil near the stove to dry out, and handed Cynthia a towel. 'Here. Dry your hair.'

The younger woman obeyed, looking more herself when she returned the towel to its owner. 'Thanks. I hadn't realised how wet I was,' she confessed. 'Or how nice it would be to take the veil off for a while.'

'The postulant's veil never seems to sit right,' Shelagh commented as she brought out the soup and began to ladle it into bowls. 'I remember. Sister Evangelina was always complaining about mine.'

Some of the tension left Cynthia's face.

'Was she always like that? She's always been critical to us nurses, you know, all her lectures about "you young girls nowadays"—'

Shelagh laughed out loud at that; Cynthia's impression of Evangelina's pet phrase was really quite uncanny, but Cynthia turned beetroot red.

'Oh, I'm awfully sorry, I shouldn't have said that, should I? It's not charitable.' She looked anxious. 'I'll have to confess it and do penance.'

Shelagh acknowledged that with a simple nod, and Cynthia sighed.

'It's just a never ending struggle,' she went on despondently, her gaze turning inward. 'So many things to do and say and remember, and it seems I'm always tripping up because it's still Nonnatus and sometimes I'm with Jenny and I forget and then Sister Evangelina comes in and just _looks_ at me… and I feel such a failure.'

'That's how it works,' Shelagh said softly, handing over the bowl, her own gaze turning distant as a pageant of memories played through her mind. 'That's the whole idea, remember. You're being broken down so that you leave Nurse Cynthia Miller behind and become this whole new person in Christ, Sister Cynthia of the Order of St Raymond Nonnatus.'

Cynthia gave her soup a swirl with her spoon. 'It's so hard.' Another swirl, and she glanced up at Shelagh and away, as though thinking of a question she shouldn't ask.

Shelagh gave an encouraging nod as she took a sip of her soup. 'Go on, I'm not Sister Bernadette any more, I'm not even your superior as a nurse just now.' Cynthia was still looking uncertain, and Shelagh leaned closer, holding the girl's eyes with her own. 'Cynthia. I'm your _friend_. Talk to me.'

'It's what you said just now, about being broken down. You went through that, you turned into Sister Bernadette, you seemed like the perfect nun.' Shelagh smiled wryly at that; to any nun, that was by definition impossible. 'You _did_. Was it very hard to do it the other way round? To become Shelagh again?'

Unexpectedly, Shelagh's throat closed. She laid her spoon carefully by her bowl and folded her hands in monastic composure. 'Yes. And—and don't talk as if it's complete. I'm still… discovering who I am, without Sister Bernadette. Sometimes I think I shall never be completely free of her.' She bit into her lip. 'I still wake at five for Lauds. More than once I've lain in our bed, not entirely sure where I am and half-wondering why Sister Julienne hasn't yet tapped on my door—' Her voice broke. 'Isn't that absurd?'

Cynthia's eyes were wide and round above the soup bowl. 'You miss Nonnatus.'

Shelagh nodded, wishing the vice around her throat would ease. 'And yet…I don't miss it at all.' She thought of Timothy, grinning up at her at breakfast. Of how she felt when Patrick's gaze rested on her with the weight of a caress. Of the joy of turning this little house into her own after so many years of uniformity and holy poverty.

'Did you have doubts? When you were a postulant?'

Shelagh considered. 'No. You see, I came to Nonnatus straight from the nurses' home. There did not seem to be much difference between the rules there and at Nonnatus. You know how strict they are.' Cynthia nodded. 'And… at Nonnatus, I encountered mercy and love … and I found a mother again,' she continued, her voice dropping. 'My father died the year I began my training, and my mother died when I was a child. I had no family and at Nonnatus… they _cared_. So no, I never doubted, not then, not as a novice, not as a nun. Not until God sent me TB and made me completely reconsider my life and His will.'

'You gained more than you lost.'

That made Shelagh pause, spoon midway between bowl and lips. 'I hadn't thought of it that way, but I suppose you're right. There wasn't much sacrifice for me. Perhaps that's why I found it so easy—then.'

'Sister Julienne said I needn't give up my friends or family just yet,' Cynthia said, listlessly stirring her soup. 'She said to remember that I'm only testing the Order, as they're testing me, and the proper honest-to-goodness business of becoming a nun won't start until I become a novice. I haven't given them up but no-one told me that _they_ might give _me _up!' The last words were almost a wail.

'Trixie,' Shelagh said, gently placing her spoon into her bowl so that there was barely a chink as metal hit ceramic. Nonnatus was unusual amongst convents in allowing—even encouraging—informal chat during meals, but even there a nun was expected to move quietly. 'Cynthia, the problem is not with _you_.'

The younger woman's brow crinkled. 'What do you mean?'

'I said this to Jenny, just after you told us what you wanted to do. Trixie doesn't like change. She likes her world to be settled—except when she's doing the rearranging, that is!' Cynthia grinned, some of the tension leaving her features, and Shelagh continued, 'Don't her problems become yours, that's all I'm saying.'

'Isn't that uncharitable?' Cynthia ventured, dropping her own spoon with a chink that was slightly louder than Shelagh's. 'Shouldn't I be putting her first?'

Shelagh gave a small shake of her head. 'You should be putting God first,' she said with emphasis. 'Everything else should flow naturally from that. That's what _this_'—she indicated Cynthia's wooden cross—'is about.'

The postulant's sallow skin flushed. 'Sometimes I forget that, with all the rules and the things I'm allowed to do and not allowed to do—'

'You're fortunate that Mother Jesu Emmanuel didn't insist you go to Chichester,' Shelagh told her soberly. 'As you know, I did my postulancy at Nonnatus, and most of my novitiate there too, but I've heard what it could be like elsewhere. All it takes is a novice mistress whose heart is so full of rules that there's no room for love, and these early years can become a form of purgatory. Sister Evangelina could tell you. Sister Julienne always strives to adhere to the spirit rather than the letter of the law. She will push you to your limits, but not beyond—Patrick! I didn't expect you back so soon!'

The doctor had burst into the room, his hair every which way and his coat streaming with small waterfalls. 'I'm sorry to interrupt, darling—'

Shelagh was already on her feet. 'What's happened?'

'A woman has just died on Cable Street. They called me,' he added, and Shelagh's eyebrows went up, understanding the significance of that.

'One of the brothels?' Cynthia asked, rising in her turn. 'Why?'

'They're ravaged with flu,' Patrick Turner said grimly. 'A woman died this morning, and when two others looked like they'd follow suit this evening, even a pimp knows to give me a call. This isn't ordinary flu, it's not just hitting the babies and the elderly; it's striking hard at the young and supposedly fit.'

'If "fit" is a word one can use for those poor women,' Shelagh added, picking up their empty bowls. 'What do you want us to do?'

'I want _you_ to do nothing,' the doctor informed her, his tone so tightly controlled that she turned to stare at him. 'Shelagh, you're still weakened from TB, I'd worry about you getting any kind of influenza, even the usual sort we encounter year after year but this… no, my love. It's too dangerous, I don't want you anywhere near it. And Nurse—I beg your pardon, _Sister_ —Cynthia was in Cable Street earlier…' He didn't have to finish; Shelagh could see how her young friend had whitened.

'I wasn't in the brothels,' Cynthia faltered. 'I only went to see Mrs Jenkins because Jenny couldn't.'

'Doesn't matter.' Patrick's tone was inflexible. 'Men have been visiting those women and bringing any 'flu home to their families; the kids will spread it in the streets and through school and clinics—' He broke off, running a hand through his hair. 'The clinic. Damnation. I'll have to tell Sister Julienne to suspend it for the duration.'

'Is there any point?' Shelagh asked. 'If everyone's been exposed already?'

'There's always a point! If we can keep even a few safe from this virus, people like you and Timothy and Sister Monica Joan… the less people mingle the better just now, and thank God it's not like the polio situation last Christmas. We can quarantine properly this time.'

'Then there's only one thing to do,' Cynthia said firmly, so firmly that Shelagh glanced at her in surprise. 'Doctor Turner, it's not realistic to think that Shelagh and Timothy can be kept safe here. You can't not go where you're called, and you'll be bringing the virus back… Shelagh and Timothy must move into Nonnatus. The new house is big enough that they can be kept quite away from everyone else if need be—'

'No!' Shelagh interrupted, instinctively grabbing her husband's arm. 'Absolutely not. I'm staying with you, Patrick. "In sickness and in health", remember?' _Don't make me break another vow_, she was begging silently. _Please don't ask it of me_.

'Shelagh.' His tone was so tender it brought tears to her eyes. 'Darling, you also swore to "honour and obey". Sometimes the one will cancel out the other… Sister Cynthia's got the right of it. I was worried about that, but Nonnatus will suit excellently, if Sister Julienne will agree—'

'Of course she will,' Cynthia put in warmly. 'She misses Shelagh, we all do.'

For the first time since his abrupt entry, Patrick Turner's dark eyes glowed with the humour his wife had come to love. 'Sorry for depriving you of her, I'm sure,' he said ironically, some of the anxiety leaving his features when Cynthia turned pink. 'I'll lend her back to you while this lasts. Darling, do you want to get some things together for yourself and Timothy while I give Sister Julienne a call?'

Seeing there was no point in arguing, Shelagh obeyed—all the while hoping against hope that this was _one_ request Sister Julienne would refuse.

TBC

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A review would be amazing, make my day, _and_ fuel another burst of creativity!


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